Chapter 31
Rosie
“Welcome, Roselle. Here, sit beside me. The view is best from this angle.”
King Alderin stands at the rail of the same balcony from which we watched the first trial. It feels like so long ago now…has it really only been four days? So much has happened, I scarcely feel like the same person anymore.
And yet here I am, facing the same man who captured and tortured me. Offering him the same meek smiles, allowing him to take my hand and guide me to my seat above the arena. Nothing has changed, nothing essential. I am, as I always have been, in his thrall.
The idea burns in the pit of my stomach, even as I take my seat.
Peering over the rail, I see no sign of the obstacle course.
Instead, all is rock, stalagmites, and jutting boulders—difficult to navigate, but not quite so difficult as lava pits and bone-crushing churn-stones.
The prism-reflected sunlight illuminates the space almost as bright as day, but at first glance, I can discern no hint of what the day’s challenge will involve.
“Behold, your final champions, Roselle,” Alderin says, sweeping his hand to indicate first the far-right side of the arena and then the far left.
Two men stand opposite each other, each clad in armor and bearing a sword and shield.
One I recognize at once as Prince Taigan; even with his visor down, it’s impossible to mistake that splendid red phoenix crest emblazoned across his breastplate.
On the right side of the arena is Prince Warrick, clad in carefully polished but more used-looking armor, as befits his role of Ranger Prince.
Though I cannot see their faces, there is something very solemn and concentrated in their stances.
Whatever is about to happen, they are both determined to face it with courage.
“But where is Prince Valtar?” I ask, even as my eyes scan the arena for a third figure. Perhaps he is lurking again, planning to emerge at the last moment, as he has done on other occasions.
“Prince Valtar will not be competing today.”
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “What?” I demand, turning to the king. “What did you say?”
Alderin looks at me, his gaze so gentle and compassionate.
“Unfortunately, Prince Valtar was discovered to be false. We have suspected all along, of course, but it was finally proven last night that he was, in fact, a dracori pawn of Mhoryga’s all along.
He was sent to infiltrate the championship in order to get close to you and, when opportunity presented itself, to kill you.
” He tilts his head to one side, shaking it slowly.
“It is the gods’ own blessing that we happened to have Seer Tamnaeth in our midst. A clear vision came to him last night, enabling me at last to take action.
I hate to think what might have happened otherwise. ”
I hear the words, but…but they might as well be spoken in a different language entirely.
They are mere sound, battering against my understanding, unable to find a point of access.
Because this doesn’t make sense. None of it.
Valtar, a dracori? Yes, yes, of course he bears the scar, but he revealed that for himself and gave us an explanation, did he not?
He hates Mhoryga and all that she represents. He could never be her servant.
Besides, if he was here to kill me, why did he never do it? He had opportunity—numerous opportunities, including the moment of our first meeting! He could have…he could have…
Why had he been lurking in that alcove behind the curtain? Disguised as a guard while all the other guards were conveniently absent from their posts? Why did he climb down the air shafts into my room that same night?
And why did I, with such stubborn determination, refuse to consider any of these questions more closely, dismissing and diminishing them by turns whenever they chanced to niggle at the back of my brain?
Valtar. A villain? An assassin, one of Mhoryga’s creatures? I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.
“Where is he?” I demand, rising from my seat. “Where is Prince Valtar now?”
Alderin looks up at me. “This is not the time to discuss such matters, Princess. Let us observe the trial, and then—”
“No!” I shake my head, backing away three steps, my hands clenched into fists. “No, I want to know where he is, I want to know what you’ve done to him. You’re going to tell me now and—”
My words break off in a strangled scream. For in that moment, that same sensation of a door slamming open bursts through my brain, and three voices erupt with a cacophony of roaring. I fall to my knees, clutching my head, my mouth open with a scream I cannot hear.
Somewhere, in some faraway space outside this clamor, Alderin shouts for someone to bring the tincture, now. Soon after, a figure kneels before me, and even through the tumult in my brain, I think I recognize Philippa.
The next moment, my head is being tilted back, my jaw gripped by firm fingers.
A bitter burn splashes over my tongue, and I choke, spit, struggle.
It’s no use. Strong arms catch hold of me, forcing me to the ground, pinning me in place.
More of the brew is poured between my lips, and though I choke and writhe, the liquid burns its way down my gullet.
They let me go. I roll to one side, coughing, gagging.
I think I vomit up some of it—it’s hard to tell the difference between the burn of acid and the bitter taste of the medicine itself.
But some of it must have gone down, for when I lift my head, I see a series of swimming faces.
Alderin is there. Philippa as well. Captain Norlan stands to one side, and several of my guards, vaguely recognized.
Beyond them are the courtiers of Belanor, come to witness the spectacle—both the trial and their Dragon Princess.
“I thought I gave orders for her to be dosed before the trial began,” Alderin’s voice rumbles.
“Forgive me, my king,” I hear Philippa reply. “I did give her the dose as discussed.”
They’re drugging me. They’re rutting drugging me, and how long has it been going on? Just since last night, or did it start earlier? I try to rise, but my limbs are too numb, and I end up flailing uselessly. But at least now the three voices in my head have receded.
Alderin looks down at me, eyes narrowed with scrutiny.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he says. “I suspected the arrival of your kindred would cause some disturbance in your mind, unused as you are to their presence. I took pains to prepare, but I could not have foreseen how strong the reaction would be. We will be sure to modulate your new doses accordingly.”
I don’t try to make sense of this gibberish.
And when disembodied hands grip my arms and drag me to my feet, I cannot protest. My knees buckle, my head whirls, and somewhere deep, deep down, I think I even feel the stir of fire in my core.
But it’s no use. I can do nothing but sit where they place me, back in that cursed chair.
Philippa leans forward and gently wipes my mouth and the front of my bodice before arranging my head so that I am looking down into the arena once more.
That’s when I see them. For the first time in sixteen years, I see them: dragon spawn.
They do not look like dragons in this particular moment.
An unknowing gaze would think they were merely three young men of various ages.
The oldest looks to be no more than my age, the youngest barely more than a child of thirteen, maybe fourteen, years.
Is he even old enough to manifest his dragon form?
I don’t know—my lessons in dragon lore are all muddled just now.
Dully, as though the thought is coming from someone else, channeled to me from a distance, I think: So, this is the final challenge. My champion must slay a dragon.
Then, even smaller, more of a whispered feeling than an actual thought: My brothers.
And suddenly I know. I know what last night should have confirmed, but which some small part of me wanted to resist even after nearly burning alive in my own flame.
I am the Dragon Princess. I am the very person I’ve been denying all this time.
I am Mhoryga’s daughter, Alderin’s protégée, the gods-rutting hope of the world. I am all this and more…
I am a sister.
Those are my brothers down below me, huddled together in a group, bound in meorise chains. Mhoryga’s sons, born in hellfire, with living magma flowing in their veins.
“Take out the smallest one,” Alderin calls down into the arena. “We need only two for this trial.”
I watch in numb fascination as the long chains are yanked and the youngest dragon spawn is pulled away from the others toward a cleft in the wall.
The older two howl and roar, straining against their bonds, all to no avail.
One of them calls after the youngest, his voice ringing loud against the stones, “Courage, Rhyo! Courage, my lad!”
Tears pour down the boy’s face, and he cries out what might be the names of his brothers, his voice choked and incoherent. Then the chains drag him through the dark cleft, out of the reflected sunlight, leaving the other two alone in the center of the arena. Alone, save for the two champions.
I turn my gaze from Taigan to Warrick and back again.
Taigan shifts on his feet, rolling his shoulders, keen for action.
Warrick remains solemn and still, but there is tension in his stance.
I cannot bear to look at either of them, however, and turn my attention again to the two young dragons.
Was it their voices that were in my head?
Was it their clamorous terror I heard last night, when they first arrived in Stromin Palace, captives bound for a dire purpose?
Their fear had felt as real as though it were my own.